(AN: WARNING- self harm, drugs, mentions of arousal, mentions of suicide. Also, I know there's a huge debate over whether Sherlock has Asperger's or not, this story just reflects my personal opinion so no hate please. Enjoy! Please review!)
Sherlock Holmes was not a sociopath. He claimed to be one because he wanted to be one, wanted to be cold and unfeeling and uncaring. He did not understand emotions, but he still had them despite his attempts to delete them from his mind like he did to other useless things. Useless? Yes, useless, harmful even; all emotions, love especially led to pain in the end.
All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. Mycroft's words were true, but Sherlock couldn't seem to stop himself from caring, especially for one individual...
John Watson was straight. Or at least he told himself this daily, but his own words were beginning to seem like lies even to himself. Never, in his whole life, had he become aroused because of a male... until Sherlock wore a bed sheet to Buckingham Palace, with no pants. He had looked so sexy with his slim, muscular body wrapped up tight in such thin fabric, and the no pants thing... well, let's just say that that had been extremely obvious if one were to glance downward.
"Inappropriate," hissed John. He was still embarrassed at the memory of getting a hard-on at the sight of his friend, even though his jacket had been able to cover it up. No one had seen.
The next part of the memory was even more painful, but not from embarrassment; this part he would definitely have to do something about.
Sherlock had been walking away. Mycroft had stepped on the sheet. And as glorious as Sherlock had looked with his top half exposed, John had been distracted by the many scars that crisscrossed his creamy skin; they were consistent from his shoulders to his wrists on both arms, as well as on his sides. They were harsh, straight slashes, obviously not accidental. Torture? It was possible, but the angle suggested self inflicted.
NO! Not Sherlock, not his beautiful, clever detective, please. Mycroft had seen it too, John noticed, but hadn't looked surprised. He made a mental note to talk to him about it in the near future.
After the case of Irene Adler was closed forever, John found the time to observe his detective more thoroughly than he ever had before. Sherlock always wore long sleeves, he realized. There was constantly a deep pain in his eyes, even more so when he thought John wasn't watching him, though he knew Sherlock always tried to hide it.
Why? Because of Irene?
"I'm going out," John announced. He left 221B with his cell phone gripped tightly in his hand. After making sure Sherlock hadn't followed him, he phoned Mycroft.
"We need to talk. Now."
"I agree. I've been expecting this."
The car picked him up, as it usually did, and soon Mycroft was sitting on a sofa opposite him, sipping tea and looking deeply worried. "You've come to ask about the scars, I presume."
"I don't know why he does it," said Mycroft softly. "I've tried getting him to stop, but he won't budge on the matter. He says he won't hurt himself too seriously, but he's needed medical attention before. I'm afraid to force him into stopping because when he relapses- and he would- he might end up worse than before. He might end up with a stronger addiction. Or, more likely is that he'd end up dead."
John nodded again. He'd expected something like this. "What about Irene? I thought they might've had a relationship, or something, but now she's dead-"
"No. Sherlock's never had a relationship like that with anyone- in fact, you're probably the closest he's gotten, actually being his friend. He never had a friend before you."
"What? How? Why?"
"He claimed to be a sociopath, but I don't think that's true. He might be slightly antisocial, but not to that point," Mycroft explained. "I don't think it's that he doesn't like human contact, just that he doesn't understand the point of it and therefore tries to deny himself of it, thinking it will hurt him."
"He doesn't understand the emotions of others. Asperger's Syndrome, perhaps," murmured John.
"It seems likely, from what I know of the way his mind works. Patterns, mind palace, whatnot."
"Er, well um, never mind."
"It was nothing."
"You have romantic feelings towards him. You want to know what he would think about that."
John blushed, sinking back into the sofa, wanting to disappear. "No I don't, I'm not gay. I think I should probably go now-"
"Yes you do, John, and it's blindingly obvious. But I haven't the slightest idea of how my brother would react," Mycroft told him.
"I'm leaving now," John muttered, head bent with embarrassment.
"No you're not. You know, of course, about his cocaine addiction?" Mycroft asked.
"Cocaine- what- what?!" John practically shouted. "He barely sleeps-"
"Apparently you didn't know. And I'm fairly certain he had insomnia before he started this."
"I'm not sure he does it anymore, actually. I was going to ask you."
"So illegal- "
"Off with you, now."